Lost and Gone Forever (11 page)

W
hen Claire Day opened her eyes again, Robert and Simon were kneeling beside her on the floor. Simon was holding her hand, and Robert bore a worried expression that Claire would have done anything to erase. Behind them, Fiona was shielding the pram, keeping the babies from seeing what had happened, and Mr Goodpenny was turning in circles, hollering for help. She felt ashamed that she was the cause of so much concern and embarrassed that she had fainted. After everything she had been through in the past two years, she felt she ought to be made of sterner stuff than that.

She smiled at Robert, but he didn’t smile back. That wasn’t a surprise. Robert and Simon had seen their parents murdered and had barely escaped the same fate. Claire had tried to give them some semblance of a normal life, but the boys rarely let her out of their sight. They were convinced she would die, too, or disappear the same way Walter had, leaving them alone again.

“I’m all right, Robert,” she said. “Everything’s fine.”

He nodded, but put his small hand on her forehead. Two
shopgirls and a floor manager were hovering nearby, clearly not sure how to deal with the situation. Claire nodded at them, trying to convey that she was fine, no harm done, everyone could go about their business in the usual way.

She looked up at the gallery. The table where Walter had been sitting was empty now. Had she really seen him there? Or had she been searching crowds for her husband for so long that her mind was now playing tricks on her?

“I’m not ill,” she said. She held out her hand, and the floor manager stepped forward to help her up, but Robert waved him away. He and Simon pulled at her arms with all their might. If she let go of Robert’s arm, she thought he would fly backward into a display case.

She smiled again, this time at the floor manager.

“Please, ma’am, are you sure you’re entirely well?” he said.

“It’s this place. It’s so huge and lovely. I’m afraid I was overwhelmed.”

The manager finally smiled back at her, relieved and flattered. “It is a bit much, isn’t it? Please, we have an automatic lift at the back, just this way; won’t you have a cup of tea? It’s courtesy of Plumm’s. You can relax and catch your breath and look around while resting your feet.” He glanced down at Robert and Simon, who were now clinging to her skirts as if they intended to prop her up in the event of another fall. “And cakes for these brave little boys,” the manager said.

“Thank you,” Claire said. “Perhaps I should sit down. Please give me a minute to catch my breath, won’t you?”

The manager clapped his hands once and turned to show them to the lift. The customers, disappointed that the drama had ended so bloodlessly, resumed shopping, and the staff returned to their duties.

It seemed impossible that the man on the gallery had been her
husband. If she claimed to have seen Walter, she would be raising the boys’ hopes, and what if it was a case of mistaken identity?

And if she wasn’t wrong, if she really had seen Walter? Why hadn’t he seen her? He hadn’t even looked. He wasn’t a cruel or insensitive man, and she couldn’t believe, couldn’t allow herself to even think, that he didn’t love her anymore, that he had decided to leave and never look back.

“Robert,” Claire said, “and Simon, would you boys check on the little girls for me? I don’t want them to be worried.”

Robert clearly didn’t want to leave her side, but he allowed Simon to lead him a few feet away to where the governess was walking slowly along behind the manager, cooing at the babies. Claire moved closer to Fiona.

Fiona whispered, “Are you quite sure you’re all right?”

“I am,” Claire said. “But tell me . . . Did you happen to look up there, at the tea shop right there, a bit ago? A minute ago, when I fainted?”

“No, I was sketching the furniture for ideas to help with your book. Is it the book? The pressure of it, I mean. Is that why you passed out?”

“No. At least, I don’t think so. It’s . . . Well, you’re going to think me mad.”

“I won’t.”

“Oh, please don’t, Fiona. You’re the only one I can tell, and if you give me that look, that pitying look that says you’re only humoring me, then I think I shall scream.”

“I wouldn’t do that. Not ever. Not even if you really were mad.”

Claire smiled and shook her head. “I saw him.”

“Saw who? You mean Mr Day? You saw him here?” Fiona gasped
and stood on tiptoe, turning her head this way and that. “Where is he?”

“Stop that. We don’t want to attract any attention to ourselves. He was at the tea shop up there.”

“But where is he now?”

“So you do believe me?”

“Of course I do.”

“He was right there, sitting at a table there.”

“And you didn’t call out to him?”

“He wasn’t alone,” Claire said.

“Not . . .”

“Not what?”

“Not another woman.”

“No, of course not.”

“Then who?”

“I’ll tell you later. It’s too complicated to tell you here.”

“But do you think he’s still here? In the store?”

“I hope so. Surely we would have seen him leave, unless there’s a back way.”

“We have to tell Nevil,” Fiona said. “I mean Mr Hammersmith. We have to find him and get him here right away, before it’s too late and Mr Day disappears again.”

“Oh,” Claire said. “Oh, of course. Nevil will help us.”

She hadn’t even thought. She wasn’t alone. She had so many people around her who loved her and who loved her husband. And if Fiona believed her, then Nevil Hammersmith would believe her, too. He would search the place from top to bottom as soon as he arrived. Nevil would search the entire neighborhood if need be. She had to talk to him right away. She could send a runner to his office
later in the day, but she knew he had gone to Scotland Yard today to check once more on any progress that might have been made. If he was still there . . .

She raised her voice. “Excuse me.”

The manager turned around and raised his eyebrows at her.

“I wonder if you might have a telephone somewhere here.”

J
ack hung up the receiver and set the telephone upright on the desk. He checked Day’s pulse, which was strong and regular. People were such fragile things, full of delicate organs and unbalanced humors.

“Well,” Jack said, “I can’t simply leave you here, can I?” He squatted and got his hands under Day’s arms, lifted him into the chair, then stepped back and pressed his hand to his abdomen. The gauze wrapped around his torso was already spotted with fresh blood. He gave the unconscious man a black look. “This would have been so much easier if you only did what was expected of you, if you only acted like any other ordinary human being.”

But of course, if Walter Day had been any other ordinary human being, Jack might have killed him months ago. Walter Day seemed ordinary enough, but there was something about him, some special quality, that drew Jack to him. Jack wished he understood what it was so he could cut it out of the detective and move on.

He shook Day and, when there was no response, slapped him across the face. Still, Day didn’t wake up.

“Walter Day, I can’t decide whether you’re the strongest person I’ve met or the weakest,” Jack said. “I’ve never seen anyone so thoroughly hide away inside his own head.”

The office door opened and Jack looked up, surprised to see a child standing there, a boy perhaps thirteen or fourteen years old. The boy’s face was full of fear and anger, and Jack smiled. He heard the distant rumble of the electric lift.

“Please,” Jack said, “come in. I’ve been expecting you. Close the door, would you?”

•   •   •

T
HE FLOOR MANAGER
knocked on the door and, when there was no response, he jiggled the knob. He shrugged at Claire. “The new fellow has a lot of work to catch up on. We’ve had some minor staffing problems recently. Not to worry, all smoothed over. I suppose Mr Oberon doesn’t want to be disturbed just now. But come, there’s a second phone in Mr Plumm’s office. He’s out at the moment, and I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.”

He led the way down the passage toward a door at the end, but Claire hesitated. She touched the doorknob and quietly twisted it, thinking perhaps it might magically open for her where it hadn’t for the manager. But it was indeed locked, and after scowling at it for a moment, she turned and followed along in the manager’s wake. She rubbed her fingers against the fabric of her dress. The doorknob had given her a slight shock when she’d touched it.

•   •   •

T
HE MURDERER TOOK
his hand off Ambrose’s mouth and held a finger to his lips.

“There’s a good lad.” His voice was barely more than a whisper,
rasping against Ambrose’s skin. “Be quiet now. There will be big trouble for us all if my friend is found here.”

Ambrose nodded. He was trembling, and his nose was running.

“You seem frightened,” the murderer said. “Don’t be. As long as we’re quiet, we won’t have any trouble. Do I know you, boy?”

Ambrose shook his head.

“Well, I could swear . . . But if not . . .” He frowned down at Day. “My friend’s had a bit too much to drink, I’m afraid.”

“Guv?” It was the best Ambrose could manage under the circumstances, but there was no response from the motionless man in the chair.

The murderer looked back and forth between Ambrose and the guv. “Oh, you know him! For how long?”

“A few . . . A week or three.”

“What has he told you about me?”

“Nothin’, sir, I swear it. I don’t know nothin’.”

“He’s never mentioned me? Never mentioned old Jack?”

“No, sir.”

“I’m wounded.” There was indeed a patch of blood creeping up Jack’s belly. He was literally wounded, and Ambrose wondered if the guv had done it. The man calling himself Jack stared at Ambrose until he could feel the hairs on his neck creeping. “I have seen you somewhere,” the murderer said.

“What did you mean you was expectin’ me? What you said before.”

“Providence always provides. I can’t move our mutual friend by myself. I need help, and so you’ve happened by in the nick of time.”

“I need to . . .” Ambrose’s voice trailed off, and he turned toward the door.

“Don’t leave, little boy.”

“But I—”

“I said don’t leave. Now be quiet until they’ve passed back by again. After that, we’ll talk.” The murderer sat on the edge of the desk and smiled at Ambrose. Ambrose felt very cold.

“Is he dead?”

“No. Not in the least.”

“You gonna kill him?”

“Now why would you ask me that?”

“I don’t know.” Ambrose realized he was panting, as if he’d run a long distance.

“Be quiet now,” Jack said. “They’re coming back through.”

Ambrose nodded and swallowed. He could hear footsteps and a lady talking outside the office door, but he couldn’t make out what she was saying. Whoever she was, the murderer didn’t want her to find him here. Ambrose knew that Jack was going to kill him and would probably kill the guv, too, and his only chance was to speak up, to scream and holler and make the people outside in the hallway break down the door. If there were enough people round them, the murderer wouldn’t dare do anything. They could catch him. Ambrose would tell them about the two dead women, and they would put Jack in prison, and there would be no more worries. He opened his mouth, but before he could utter a sound, Jack’s hot, dusty hand was suddenly clapped over his lips again. He hadn’t heard Jack move up behind him. The voices in the passage were fading as the woman and her entourage reached the lift and the door closed behind them.

The murderer’s lips touched Ambrose’s ear. “Now we can talk.”

The hand disappeared from Ambrose’s mouth, and Jack was already sitting again on the corner of the desk when Ambrose lifted his head.

“What’s your name, boy?”

“Ambrose.”

“Good. Did I already say you can call me Jack if you want to? Some people do.”

“Is it your name?”

“Sometimes. But I have many names and I have no preferences among any of them. Now.” Jack clapped the palms of his hands against his thighs and looked round the office as if he’d only now arrived there. “I’ve had a chance to think our situation over and I’ve decided there’s no polite way to proceed. Don’t you agree?”

“No, sir. We can be polite.”

“My advice to you, Ambrose, is to embrace the moment. Of course, you must be polite if you can, but there are times when a small amount of rudeness is unavoidable. And there are times when outright savagery is required.”

“Savagery?”

“Indeed. And if we shrink from the occasion, then we miss our chance to enjoy the savagery for itself. For the marvelous change of pace that it is.”

“What are you going to do?”

“It’s not what I’m going to do, Ambrose, it’s what you’re going to do. You seem to feel some regard for our friend here.” He waved a loose, languid hand at Day’s slumbering form. “And so you will run a small errand for me and come right back here.”

Ambrose shook his head, but couldn’t speak.

“Yes,” Jack said. “If you do not, or if you tell anyone about me or bring anyone back to this office, I will kill our friend while you watch. And I will kill anyone else you’ve brought here. And then I will kill you. Only I will kill you very slowly. Very slowly indeed. And I will enjoy it so much more than you will. Do you understand?”

Ambrose shook his head again, then gasped and nodded.

“Good. Do you believe I will do what I say?”

Another nod.

“Wonderful. We’re getting on splendidly, aren’t we?”

Ambrose cleared his throat and licked his lips with a dry tongue. “What is it that you want me to do?”

M
r and Mrs Parker had waited outside the coffeehouse and followed Leland Carlyle when he emerged because, as Mrs Parker had rightly pointed out, “The best way to find our man is to track his man.” Jack the Ripper was claiming the lives of the Karstphanomen. They had no clue to his identity, but they did know the identity of the high judge of the Karstphanomen, and it stood to reason that Jack would, sooner or later, get round to murdering Leland Carlyle. So they followed him and waited for someone to make an attempt on his life.

Carlyle and his wife had taken Hardwick House for the summer months. It was situated on Brook Street near Grosvenor Square, and after leaving the coffeehouse, Carlyle returned there. Mr and Mrs Parker waited outside, across the road in the mews, for hours, but the high judge did not reappear.

“I’m terribly bored,” Mrs Parker said.

“You’re speaking English.”

“When in England . . . It’s good practicing. But I’m bored.”

“Yes,” Mr Parker said. “This job of work is less straightforward than I would prefer.”

“It’s all tangled up in itself.”

“Anything involving Jack the Ripper is bound to be. We’re tasked with discovering the whereabouts of a fellow who escaped the police and a whole club of gents that’ve been trying to find him for a year now.”

“And killing him. That’s the fun part, of course.”

“Of course. That’s always the fun part.”

“It’s just, there aren’t usually so many dull parts before the killing.”

“But it’s worth it, wouldn’t you say? We’ll be the ones to finally put an end to this whole Ripper business.”

“You know he plans to have us killed in turn. Carlyle does.”

“You think so, too?”

“I do. We’ll do his dirty business for him, and then he’ll do away with us and put it all behind him.”

“Well,” Mr Parker said, “I don’t plan to let him do that.”

“I didn’t think you did. But forewarned is forearmed.”

“I am always armed.”

Mrs Parker laughed, a light tinkling sound that always reminded Mr Parker of chimes in a gentle breeze. Part of what he enjoyed about the act of murder was the way it made Mrs Parker laugh. It reminded him of her childhood in the country, of watching her ride horses and playing with her in the wood behind the estate, where she had tortured small creatures for fun.

“Let’s go and come back tomorrow,” Mrs Parker said.

Mr Parker could rarely deny Mrs Parker anything, but now he frowned. A deep crease appeared between his eyes. “He may not be coming out tonight, but it’s still possible Jack the Ripper might make
an appearance while we’re gone, and then we’ll have lost the only means we have for finding him.”

“He won’t come tonight,” Mrs Parker said.

“And you know this because?”

“Because he’s no doubt off doing something more fun than watching a boring old house. Something gooey, like slitting open a serving wench and turning her on a spit over a crackling fire. Watching the fat roll down the skin of her thighs and sizzle on the coals.” Her eyes were closed, and she licked her top lip.

He watched the tip of her pink tongue. “And if he’s not? If he’s waiting for us to leave so he can kill our client before we do?”

“Then I will most sincerely apologize to you,” she said.

“Don’t you want to find our target quickly?”

“We’re not going to find him tonight.”

He felt he had pushed her as hard as he could. Any more and she might become dangerous. “Very well,” he said. “What would you prefer?”

“That place,” she said. “That place he told us about.”

“He,” in this context, could mean only one person: an old man they had killed in his bedroom in Alsace. His death had taken several days to play out, and Mr Parker’s daughter had spent the entirety of that time at his side. Mr Parker had slept on and off, but Mrs Parker had never slept; she had listened to the old man’s ravings as his body had fed on itself and his fluids had soaked into the mattress beneath him.

“That place is in France, my dear,” Mr Parker said. “He was talking about Paris, I think.”

“And where are we now?”

“London.”

“And they are different?”

“They are some miles apart from each other.”

“Can we go to Paris tonight?”

“Not if we want to fulfill this contract.” She was tugging her earlobe and tapping her finger against her throat and, watching her, Mr Parker began to feel nervous himself. Without realizing he was doing it, he began to rub the two-inch scar on his left temple. One of many reminders he carried of Mrs Parker’s temper. “Very well,” he said. “We need to stay in London if we’re to make any money this trip, but perhaps we can take the rest of the evening off and find something fun to do here.”

Mrs Parker instantly relaxed and lowered her hand from her throat. Mr Parker smiled at her. She really was quite lovely when she wasn’t screaming or hurting him.

“Nobody old this time,” she said. “I want to find someone young and healthy. It’s so much more satisfying when they start out strong.”

“Yes, my darling,” Mr Parker said. He reasoned that they might find a suitable distraction for her in Hyde Park and gestured for her to walk ahead of him down Brook Street. There was no way he would have her at his back. Never again.